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Marguerite Yourcenar and Silvia Baron Guy de Maupassant Supervielle

Charities of Alcippus II

In Wood worried that prowl the battered
In the shaded gardens where seeds jasmine,
Sealer finger lifted their long silent complaints,
come to me I saw the people of the statues
Marble and metal m ' seized by the hand.

At the bottom of golden temples where idols of dark From their
sapphire eyes looking towards the sea,
A slow sigh, like the thrill of gondolas, rocking on their
within the heavy chandeliers;
All rose on me their beautiful look bitter.

In the depths of the mountains, the gorges of Carrara marble
The uncut shouted under my feet, And
jasper, and agate, and porphyry rare
Dragged on site by sculptors barbarians
told me what despair is not to be. They suffered

to ignore what names they are called, or what kings
What Caesars, liabilities representatives
They will be on the gates of Rome, And what
Forgot your master in this hell of man
Will remain in them as an insult to time.

The Greek Gods lamented their beauty still vain
Tired of all the incense of themselves unnoticed
The warmth of fine evenings do not fill their veins,
And beneath their pale foreheads girded to buy and verbena
pain to exist without having ever known.

Gods asked me my soul inexhaustible
As a source of gold that would spring up in them,
order for the faithful to kneel on the sand,
Seeing their smiling mask finally unknowable
Open your arms, s ECRI, and is happy.

So they can listen to those who pray,
Or mock them fools worshipers
Open their eyes on the world of gems, Las
our deception and our idolatries, their priests and punish
hit their sculptors .

So I stuck my mouth with their tough lips
On the mound already hot as I kissed her;
My soul with his fears, his despair, his fever,
In their rigid body polished by goldsmiths,
S 'went into a whole with its past. My body

widower of my soul wandered in scope,
Insensitive to wind melodious calls;
Comme une lampe d'or vainement suspendue,
Dont l'huile goutte à goutte à jamais s'est perdue,
Mon âme m'avait fui pour animer les Dieux.

MARGUERITE YOURCENAR

Las caridades de Alcipio II

En los inquietos bosques vibrantes de batidas,
Por los jardines ebrios donde sube el jazmín,
Sellando con el dedo sus quejidos callados,
Vi venir hacia mí una legión de estatuas;
El mármol y el metal me tomaron la mano.

En los templos dorados donde sombríos ídolos
Miran con sus ojos de zafiro hacia el mar,
A sigh, as the chill of a gondola, elongated,
lifted up their heavy breasts pinwheels;
All, with its beautiful bitter eyes watching me.

In the depths of the mountains, in the workings of Carrara marble low gross
my time crying;
jasper, agate and porphyry
For the wild rare sculptor workshop dragged
The despair of not being me said. They suffered

ignore the names they had,
of not knowing what to Caesar what
passively King would be on the gates of Rome;
What this teacher forgotten man hell
as an affront to time, they would still

The Greek gods were suffering from empty beauty,
Tired of invisible incense around;
The sweet warmth of the afternoon did not fill their veins and their livid
fronts
verbena celery and encircled the pain of being without having known it.

gods asked me endless
my soul That they would flow like a glowing source,
For the faithful kneeling in the sand,
Seeing so secret smile masks,
Open Arms, to rejoice and stand rapt;

To suddenly hear those who pray
O quietly mock the lovable fool,
Expand your eyes on the world of diamonds, and
tired of the deception and the idolatry
Punishing the priest and hit the sculptor.

then pasted my mouth to his lips severe
The marble in my embrace and burning;
My soul from fear, grief, fevers,
In those hard bodies that the goldsmith polished,
Whole and all his past away. Widowed

my body my soul wandered by extension,
Insensitive to wind melodious signals;
As a golden lamp in vain Whose
suspended oil drop by drop, to always be poured,
To encourage the gods I left my soul. Translation

SILVIA BARON SUPERVIELLE

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: Mr. Jocasta

MR JOCASTA

Madam, do you remember our great quarrel one evening in the lounge of Japan, about the father who committed incest? Do you remember your indignation, violent words you jetiez me, the excitement of your anger, and you remember everything I said to defend this man? You have condemned me. I called.
Nobody in the world, pretend you, nobody could absolve the infamy of which I am advocating. I will now tell this drama in public.
Perhaps they will find someone there, not to excuse the vile and brutal, but to understand that we can tackle some fatalities cons that seem horrific fantasies of omnipotent nature!


He had been married at sixteen, with a man old and hard, a businessman, eager for her dowry. It was a cute blonde creature, cheerful and dreamy at the same time, with large appetites of ideal happiness. Disillusionment fell on his heart and grind. She realized suddenly life, the future lost, disaster his hopes, and he remained one desire in the soul, that of having a child to hold his love.
She had none.
Two years passed. She loved him. He was a young man of twenty-three, who adored him to commit all the follies for her. She resisted, however, resolutely and long. His name was Pierre Martel.
But one winter evening, they found themselves alone in her home. He came for a cup of tea. Then they were seated near the fire, on a low seat. They spoke little, harpooned by desire, full lips that thirst of the wild casts on other lips, arms quivering from the need to open up and hug her.
The shaded lamp shed a light lace intimate lounge in the quiet. Both embarrassed, sometimes they pronounced a few words, but when their eyes met, their hearts lifted a jerk. What can
feelings against violence learned instincts? What can the prejudice of decency against the irresistible will of nature?
Their fingers accidentally touched. And that is enough. The brute force of the senses and threw one to the other. They hugged and she gave way.
It was big. Her lover or her husband? Could she know? But the lover, no doubt.
Then a terror to harass and it is believed certain to die in childbirth, and she always took an oath to him who had owned and of watching over the child throughout his life, not to deny, of be everything for him, and even, if necessary, to commit a crime for her happiness.
This obsession bordered on madness, she was excited more and more approaching the issue. She died giving birth to a daughter.


It was for the young man terrible despair, a despair so furious that he could not hide. The husband, perhaps, had doubts, perhaps he knew that his daughter could be born of him! He closed his door to him who the real father believed him and hid the child he had erected in secret.
And many years passed.
Pierre Martel forgot, as we forget everything. He became rich, but he loves most and never married. His life was that of the whole world, that of a man happy and quiet. No news came to him more than he had deceived the husband nor the girl he assumed his.
But one morning he received a letter from an indifferent teaching him, by chance, the death of his former rival, and a wave disturbance, a kind of remorse swept over him. What had become of this child, her child? Could there be anything for her? He inquired. It was collected by an aunt, and she was poor, poor to reach poverty.
He wanted to see her and help her. He was present in the single parent of the orphan. His name
awoke from mind. It was forty years old and still seemed a young man. He was received without his daring to say he had known the mother for fear of giving rise to a suspicion later.
But when she entered the little room where he was anxiously awaiting his arrival, he started a surprise that bordered on terror. It was she! other! the dead!
It was the same age, same eyes, same hair, same size, same smile, the same voice. The illusion so complete the maddened, he did not know he lost his head all his love of the past tumultuous seething in his heart. She too was gay and simple. Immediately friends and an outstretched hand.
When he returned home, he noticed that the old had been suffering reopened, and he wept wildly, her head locked in his hands, he cried the other, haunted by memories, haunted by the familiar words, she said, suddenly fell into a hopeless despair.
And he frequented the house where the girl. He could not do without her, laughing his talk, the sound of her dress, the intonations of his voice. He confounded his mind now and in his heart, and disappeared alive, forgetting the distance, time, death, always loving each other in it, loving it in memory of another, no longer seeking to understand, namely, not even asking if she could be his daughter.
But sometimes to the annoyance or that he loved living in this dual passion, confused and incomprehensible for himself, tortured him horribly.
What could he do? Offer money? In what capacity? By what right? Play the role of guardian? It seemed hardly older than she: we would have believed her lover. Marry her? This thought suddenly arose in his soul, terrified. Then he calmed down. Who would want it? She had nothing, but nothing.
The aunt looked ahead, seeing that he loved this child. And he waited. What? did he know?
One evening they were alone. They chatted quietly, side by side on the sofa in the lounge. Suddenly he took her hand in a fit father. And he kept it, troubled heart and meaning despite its commitment, not daring to push the hand she was abandoning, and feeling faint if he was guarding. And suddenly she fell into his arms. Because she loved him passionately, as her mother had loved him, as if she had inherited this fatal passion.
Distraught, he pressed his lips into her hair blond, and as she raised her head to escape both their lips met. It becomes
crazy times. They were.
When he found himself in the street, he walked in front of him without knowing what he would do.


I remember, Madam, your indignant cry: "He had only to kill!"
I answered: "And she? Did he have to kill her too?"
This child loved her wildly, madly, this passion and fatal hereditary had shot, virgin ignorant and distracted on the chest of this man. She had done so in this irresistible intoxication of being the world who does not know, which gives the tumultuous instinct wins, jumps into the embrace of a lover, as he throws the male beast.
If he killed, what would it be? ... She would die! ... She would die disgraced, desperate, horribly tortured.
What?
abandon it, the build, to marry ...? She died yet, she would die of grief, without accepting his money or another husband, since she had delivered to him. He had ruined his life, destroyed any happiness possible for her, he was condemned to eternal misery, despair, eternal, flame eternal, the eternal loneliness or death.
And he also loved him! He loved her with horror now, but also with passion. It was his daughter either. Chance of fertilization, the brutal laws of reproduction, a contact of a second daughter had no legal relationship that did not attach to him, he loved as he had loved his mother, and even more as if two passions were accumulated in it.
Was she his daughter anyway? And then, who cares? Who would know?
And the memories came back to her ardent vows made the dying. He promised he would give his life to this child, he would commit a crime if necessary for her happiness.
And he loved her, plunging into the dreadful thought of his crime, soft, torn with grief and torn with desire. Who would know? ... since the other was dead, father!
"Be!" He said, the infamous secret will break my heart. As she did not suspect, I will carry only the weight. "
He asked for her hand, and married her.
I do not know if he was happy, but I like him, ma'am.

January 23 1883.


Maupassant

JOCASTA MR

Remember, madam, the very discussion we had one night in the parlor Japanese, about a father who committed incest? Remember how you were angry, violent words that I was going, his anger exalted? And remember what I said in defense of this man? You condemned me. Appealed.
Nobody in the world, holding you, no one could excuse the infamy of which I was counsel. Today publicly tell this drama.
Perhaps someone may be able not to excuse the fact filthy and brutal, but understand that it is possible to combat some horrific occurrences fatalities seem omnipotent nature.


She had been married at sixteen to a tough old man, a businessman who just covet the dowry. It was a beautiful blonde girl, cheerful and dreamy at the same time, with a huge craving ideal happiness.
The disappointment came over his heart and crushed it. Suddenly he understood what life was the loss of their future, the ruin of his hopes, and he was only one desire in the soul, that of having a son who give their love.
had not.
Two years passed. He fell in love. He was a young man of twenty years of age, who adored to the point of being capable of any insanity by it. But she resisted strongly and for a long time. His name was Pierre Martel.
But some winter afternoon found themselves alone in her house. He had gone for a cup of tea. Then he sat by the fire, on a low seat. Hardly speak, spurred by the desire, her lips full of wild thirst that pushes other lips, arms to which shook the urge to open up and embrace.
lamp, veiled with lace, cast a light close to the quiet room. Both were uncomfortable, sometimes uttered the odd word, but when their eyes met, their heart skipped a beat.
What can the feelings acquired through education against the violence of the instincts? What can the modesty bias against the irresistible will of nature?
His fingers touched by chance. And that was enough. The brutal force threw the senses toward each other. They shook and she was delivered.
became pregnant. "The lover or husband? How could I know? Lover, perhaps. Then
harassed terror, was sure he would die in childbirth, and constantly made him swear that he had possessed and would look after the child throughout his life, he does not deny anything, it would be all for it everything, and, if necessary to make him happy, would be able to commit a crime.
His obsession reached almost to madness, is increasingly exalted as the birth approached. Succumbed to give birth to a girl.


For the young that was a terrible despair, a despair so angry that he could not hide. Perhaps the husband had doubts, perhaps knew that the girl could not be theirs. He closed the door he thought was the true father, and hid the girl, which was bred in secret.
and spent many years. Pierre Martel
forgotten, as everything is forgotten. It was rich, but it did not fall in love and never married. Lived the life of the world, that of a happy and peaceful man. I no longer had any notice of the husband she had cheated, or the young that, as supposed, was his daughter.
But one morning received a letter from a third party who incidentally informed him of the death of his former rival, and invaded a vague uneasiness, a kind of remorse. What had become of that girl, his daughter? Could not do anything for her? Learned. The collection had an aunt and was poor, poor, almost to the misery.
wanted to see her and help her. He made it to the home of the only relative of the orphan.
Your name did not awaken any memories. He was forty years old and still looked like a boy. When I received, did not dare to say that he had met the mother, for fear of arousing any suspicion later.
But as she entered the parlor in which he was anxiously awaiting his arrival, Pierre had a shock of surprise bordering on terror. It was she! The other! The dead!
was the same age, same eyes, same hair, same height, same smile, same voice. The illusion was so complete that crazy, not knowing what to think, lost his head, all the love of the past tumultuous seething in the depths of his heart. She too was happy and simple. Immediate friendship and helping hand. Ya
Back at home, warned that the old wound was reopened, and wept uncontrollably with his head in his hands, cried the other, haunted by memories, haunted by familiar phrases she said, suddenly plunged into a end despair.
And he began to frequent the house where the girl lived. He could not do without it, their cheerful chatter, the rustle of her dress, the intonations of his voice. Now confused in his mind and heart to both, the dead and alive, forgetting the distance, time spent, death, still loved each other in it, loved it in memory of the other, untreated and to understand know, without question, and even if I could be your daughter.
But sometimes, seeing the narrowing of women's lives to which he loved with the passion double, confusing and incomprehensible for himself, suffered horribly.
What could I do? Does money? "By way of what? What right? "Assume the role of tutor? It seemed hardly older than she: he had been taken by her lover. "Marry? This idea, which emerged early in his soul, he was horrified. Then he calmed down. Who would? I had nothing, absolutely nothing.
's aunt, seeing his affection for the young guess their intentions. And he expected ... What? Did you know?
One afternoon he met alone. They chatted quietly next to each other, sitting on the parlor sofa. Suddenly he took her hand, moved by paternal impulse. And held it, despite disturbed him in the heart and senses, not daring to reject that hand as she handed him and feeling while flaquearía if retained. And suddenly she slumped into her arms. Because he loved passionately, and his mother had loved him as if he had inherited that passion fatal.
Madly, he kissed her blond hair, and when she raised his head to run away, their mouths met.
There are times when we go mad. That happened to them.
already back on the street, Pierre walked aimlessly, not knowing what he was doing.


remember, lady, how you cried indignantly: "Since he had no more to be killed!"
I said, 'What about her? Do you also had to kill her? "
The girl loved him madly, madly, with fatal, inherited that passion that had broken down, ignorant and frantic virgin, on the chest of the man. Had done so moved by that irresistible intoxication of all being that no longer knows best, that is delivery, which drag the tumultuous instinct, throwing him into the arms of a lover and throws the female to the male animal.
What would happen to her if he was killed? ... He would die! ... Die disgraced, desperate, horribly tortured.
What to do?
Leave Him, to give a dowry to marry her? ... Also die, die of grief, without accepting money or other spouse, and who had given him. Had destroyed his life, had destroyed all possible happiness for her, had condemned to eternal misery, to eternal despair, to an eternal fire, an eternal loneliness or death.
And besides, he loved her. He loved her with horror now, but also passionately! It was his daughter, agreed. Chance of fertilization, the brutal law of reproduction, a contact of a second had to be his daughter that being that was not attached to it by any legal binding, which wanted him as his mother had wanted and more , as if he had added two passions.
other hand, was really his daughter? Anyway, what matter? Who would know?
And he returned to the burning memory the promises made to the dying. He had vowed to consecrate his life to the child, if necessary could be committing a crime to make her happy.
And loved her, sinking into the idea of their abominable crime and sweet, torn by grief and torn by desire. Who would know ?..., if the other, the father was dead!
"All right! "He said," this infamous secret may tear my heart. As she will be unable to suspect, will upload my own with him. "
Requested his hand and he married her.
do not know if he was happy, but I, madam, as he had done.


January 23, 1883.


Translation Carlos Chamber and Miguel Angel Fronten

Halloween Costumes Someone On Crutches

Théophile Gautier and Jules Laforgue

Ce que disent les
hirondelles
Chanson d'automne

Déjà plus d'une feuille sèche
Parsème jaunis gazons them;
Soir et morning, the breeze is fresh,
Alas! sunny days are over!

We see that the flowers open custody
Garden, for the last treasure
Dahlia puts his cockade
order his cap and gold.

The rain basin is bubbly;
Swallows rooftop
hold confabulations:
This winter, the cold here!

They assemble by hundreds
concerting for departure.
One said: "Oh, in Athens
It is good on the old ramparts!

" Every year I go and I
For niche metopes of the Parthenon. My mouth
nest in the cornice
Hole a cannonball. "

The other:" I have my own room
Smyrna, the ceiling of a coffee. The
Hadjis counting their amber beads
On the threshold of a ray heated.

"I Enter and Leave, In the usual blond
vapors chibouchs,
And among the waves of smoke, I
turbans and shaved tarboosh."

latter: "I live in a triglyph
the pediment a temple at Baalbek.
I hang myself with my claw
On my little beak off. "

This one:" Here's my address:
Rhodes, Palace of the Knights;
Every winter, my tent s 'There stands the capital of black
pillars. "

The fifth:" I'll stop, because
m'alourdit age a little, white terraces
In Malta,
Between blue water and sky blue. "The sixth

:" We're comfortable
In Cairo, the minarets!
J'empâte an ornament clay,
And my winter quarters were ready. "

" In the second cataract,
did last, I have my nest
I've noticed the exact place,
pschent In the granite of a king. "All

" Tomorrow Will
how many miles under our yarn swarm
Plains brown, white peaks, blue seas
Embroidering scum their pool! "

With cries and flapping wings,
On the molding to the edges narrow
Thus gossip swallows,
light rusting to the woods.

I understand everything they say,
For the poet is a bird
But his captive elk break
against an invisible network!

Wings! wings! wings!
As Ruckert song,
To fly down there with them
the golden sun in Spring Green!

THÉOPHILE GAUTIER

Lo que dicen las Golondrinas Song



fall Here and there are the dry leaves on grass fields
yellowish
from dawn to evening the wind is fresh,
this is the end of summer time.

I see the flowers open
retaining the garden as an ultimate treasure
Dahlia wants to look its currency, the wonder
his golden touch.

Rain makes bubbles in the pond, and have secret meetings

swallows strangers on the rooftops:
winter has arrived with its cold!

hundreds are collected
to reach an agreement on their exodus.
One says: "How good it is in Athens,
seeing everything from the wall.

Every year I go there and nesting in
metopes of the Parthenon.
In my nest frieze conceals a hollow
cannonball. "

Another says:" I have my room
in Izmir, on the roof of a coffee
their amber beads have the hayi (1)
in the threshold that heats the sun. Enter and Leave

, seasoned as I am blond
the vapors of the pipes, and between sea
smoky
always grazed the turbans and feces to pass. "

It says:" I live in a triglyph, on the pediment
of a temple there in Baalbek;
there grounds me and I hold, on top of my baby
pointed beak. "

Another says:" Know my address:
Rhodes, Palace of the Knights, (2) each winter
my tent up there in capitals
black pillars. "

And fifth:" I'll rest,
because age does not allow long flights, the white
terraces that exist in Malta,
between the blue water and the sky. "

The sixth:" We have to see how good it is
in Cairo and its tall minarets! Coat with mud
an ornament
and my winter home is ready. "

"Well, I have my nest," says the last
"where the second cataract (3)
the exact location is indicated in the PSEN
a monarch of granite."

"Tomorrow many leagues," say all,
"our flock will be left behind,
brown plains, white peaks, seas
sparkling blue embroidery."

meantime screech and flutter,
on narrow ledges of height,
talk among themselves watching the swallows
rust invades the forest.

understand the words spoken
because in the end the poet is like a bird;
but, alas, is cautivo, y sus impulsos
se rompen contra redes invisibles.

¡Alas quiero tener, dadme unas alas!,
como dice aquel cántico de Rückert, (4)
para volar con ellas hacia el oro
del sol, hacia la primavera verde.

Traducción de CARLOS PUJOL

NOTAS
(1) Se da el título de hayí al musulmán que ha realizado la peregrinación a La Meca y Medina.
(2) De la orden de San Juan de Jerusalén, que conquistaron la isla a comienzos del siglo XIV.
(3) Del Nilo.
(4) Poeta alemán (1788-1866) Author de una composición donde pide alas para volar , y que el propio había traducido Gautier in 1856.